


Saturated

by WhoopsOK



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Desperation, Don't Judge Me, Dubious Consent, Ejaculate, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Mutually Posessive Behavior, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Previous Non-Consensual Kink, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Some Plot, Squick, Urination, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”“Yes, you think I’m quite dim,” Jaskier replies, but without heat. It’s hard work to create and maintain that kind of persona. People falling for it is the best kind of appreciation. “Would that have somehow made it better? If I didn’t know I was bathing in your fluids?”(Jaskier doesn’t wait until Geralt is done to get in the tub. It starts A Thing.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 376





	Saturated

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What he doesn't know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24499693) by [chaos_monkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey). 



> What he doesn’t know by chaos_monkey was so astoundingly hot it made my brain spring a leak so grabbed a bucket and wrote this.
> 
> If you’re worried about those consent tags, see the end notes for a summary w/spoilers.

Being a true half-breed of any variety, Jaskier thinks on some days, would be simpler than being the last in a long line of mutts and sluts.

The way yellow flowers turn to face him when he laughs is a neat party trick. He hasn’t a clue where he gets it from, but Dandelion is a nice nickname so he’ll keep it. Having resistance to curses is also useful, given how many fatal hexes he has artfully dodged from scorned exes. He’s pretty sure that unfortunate little incident with the djinn would’ve killed a pure-blooded man. Most of his blood is sea water, though, dripped down to him from at least six of his great-great grandmothers, which is somewhat comforting. His voice, _a siren song_ , he understands enough to control. It’s a good thing, too, because attention starvation literally killed one of his aunts and he’s _not_ going to wither the way she had by the time they’d found her. He hasn’t had to worry about fighting for attention in years, not since he learned to choke down people’s annoyance as well.

 _Especially_ not since meeting Geralt.

Witchers in general are constantly aware of their surroundings, but Geralt is so sensitive he’s never _not_ paying attention to Jaskier, as much as he might like to pretend otherwise.

The constant, slow drip of Geralt’s unconscious affection may actually be the most addicting flavor he’s ever had. A close and heady second is the feeling of his arousal.

Jaskier _loves_ the taste of arousal more than just about anything, wouldn’t get into half as much trouble if he didn’t. But there’s something about the all-consuming, half-guilty taste of Geralt’s attraction that he should maybe take pity on, but… _it’s just so good._ A little twist of spice in his pleasure, worse every time Jaskier ‘unknowingly’ teases him, but doesn’t give him anything.

The best-worst of Geralt’s attention is just on the edge of too sharp to stand, has been for years. Sex with Geralt would be a _monstrous_ relief after all this time, the thought alone leaves Jaskier nearly salivating. It also might rightly kill him—the way unobservant swimmers drown in roaring rapids they’d sworn were lazy rivers a mile back—but, _gods_ , what a way to go, right?

One night, Jaskier is seated on the bed with his back turned to Geralt as he bathes. It’s a performative bit of decorum, given that it’s taking all of Jaskier’s willpower—something he is not generally known for—to keep his body from reacting to the arousal Geralt is soaking him with. He’s singing softly to himself, scribbling on a notepad without a single clue what he’s writing. Nonsense mostly, empty rhymes and bits of songs he’s already finished.

A few months ago, he’d noticed how pointedly Geralt focused on him around bath time, the way his arousal suddenly spiked. It wasn’t a wholly new development; Jaskier _knew_ Geralt was silently lusting after him, but there was something different about it lately. He hasn’t been able to put his finger on it—except maybe that Geralt hadn’t _realized_ how attracted he was until now? That’s his best guess, anyway, as to why Geralt’s attention on him as he’d undressed a few months back had been sharp, pulsing with near-panic with nothing else around to cause it.

Tonight, Geralt’s attention has gone all pointed again in a way that very nearly breaks Jaskier. He’s never fed off any attention like this outside of _actual_ sex with someone and he’s not even _touching_ Geralt. What a gem the witcher is, giving Jaskier a taste of his own medicine without even knowing it. He’s getting increasingly certain that fucking Geralt would be the death of him. He’s nearly to the point of having made peace with that and jumping him when Geralt gets out of the tub.

It’s great timing to, because Jaskier gets in just in time to hide his arousal even if he can’t _do_ anything about it, not without being too obvious. Fuck, he needs to get his dick in someone, whoever even winks in his direction at the next town will have to do.

Sleeping next to Geralt that night is temptation in its worst form.

Jaskier wakes the next day so overboiled with energy, he performs at breakfast, wakes up the whole inn with laughter. It leaves him even more gorged on their attention and his pockets fat with tips.

Honestly, it’s about this point that he realizes something is up.

Having Geralt around has always proven to be more useful than not. Sure, there are more near-death experiences under Jaskier’s belt for his decision to follow Geralt on The Path, but there have been an equal number of instances when Geralt has saved his life. Not even counting keeping him delightfully well fed between performances.

Animal attention isn’t something Jaskier feeds off of, isn’t even something he normally pays attention to unless it’s warning him of danger sending him scrambling behind Geralt. They’re just about to leave town, though, when Roach jams her nose into his chest, curiously focused on him.

At first, all Jaskier can get out is “ _Oof!_ ” because she is _not_ gentle about it, but then her nose is tickling his stomach and he laughs. “Well hello girlie, are we friends now?” he scratches her muzzle as she snuffles him. “What are you after? I haven’t got any treats for you.” He feels a swell of attention from Geralt lock onto him at that, he’s just about to turn to tease him about Roach having a new favorite when he catches sight of his face. If Jaskier isn’t mistaken, he looks a touch alarmed. “Alright?”

“Fine,” Geralt snaps far too quickly for it to be true. “Let’s go.”

“You’re chipper this morning,” Jaskier complains, but steps out of the way when Geralt nudges Roach’s nose away from him before leading her out of the stable. “Don’t be jealous, she still loves you most.”

Geralt doesn’t even grace him with a grunt this time, doesn’t even look at him. He’s trying to ignore him, which Jaskier doesn’t like much at all, even if Geralt doesn’t succeed. He stays cantankerous well onto the road and Jaskier notices Roach isn’t the only creature acting differently.

One of the other lovely little features of his bloodline is his tendency to attract sprites. Geralt has never really reacted to them. They don’t seem to have any real interest in him, but flock to Jaskier, especially when he’s out in certain parts of the woods. They’re harmless things, even the meanspirited little bastards that bite like flies to syphon energy off him, so he’s never done much to avoid them. Nothing much _works_ , they always find him and having a few around is said to be good luck, anyway.

It certainly feels ominous when they all start _avoiding_ him.

The field they’ve stopped in for a rest is spotted with enough of them that Jaskier is expecting a small swarm. He ignores them as they approach as expected, continuing to chatter into Geralt’s silence. At least until the sprites get close to him only to turn tail, zipping away.

Cutting off, he watches in confusion as they bob agitatedly, seemingly equally confused by their own revulsion even if their attention feels _fearful_ , too.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier turns to find Geralt watching him, not quite concerned, but he wouldn’t be, would he? He’d know if Jaskier were cursed and his amulet is completely still, so there are no monsters around. He was still perturbed enough by the silence to say something, though, which normally would be entertaining, but Jaskier is a little distracted. He can’t help but notice, again, how the sprites have never gotten close to bothering him.

There’s a dizzy moment where Jaskier wonders if he’s managed to catch some witcher mojo after all these years, but he highly doubts that’s possible, can already imagine the look he would get for such a question.

“Yes, I was—I just—” Jaskier goes to answer the unspoken question with some benign nonsense, but he’s actually—there’s a thought tickling right at the edge of his mind. Miles and years spent at Geralt’s side and it’s only _now_ that he’s started picking up on whatever it is that scares sprites off him? Something had to have changed, but _nothing_ really has changed. Geralt hasn’t used any magic on him or given him any new items. Jaskier is wearing his own clothes, the last of the perfume he was gifted for a performance several months ago, he’s always shared _baths_ with Geralt, but…

Jaskier thinks back to that night when he’d gotten into the tub only for the sharp rush of Geralt’s attention to pour down his spine, shocking and hot for all its panic. He starts thinking of all the baths since then that Geralt has taken while focused so thoroughly on Jaskier, it’d been nearly as good as having… sex… ah.

_Ah._

Geralt is starting to look irritated, now, the easiest way he ever shows concern. “ _What_ , Jaskier?”

…The bastard came in the fucking tub, didn’t he?

Heat creeps up Jaskier’s neck, surely blows his face berry red, because _gods alive_. Part of him is reeling with disbelief, but that explains—what the _fuck_ , it’d felt like shagging because Geralt was literally sat there getting off, right there with Jaskier in the room, coming into the bathwater they _shared_.

Jaskier thinks he feels a bit outraged; for the first time in a very long life, he’s completely speechless. He thinks he should maybe be feeling something like _disgust_ , too, but…

Instead, the image of Geralt getting himself off quick and silent under the water, thinking indisputably of Jaskier, of _marking_ him like that nearly makes him weak in the knees. “ _Gods_ ,” he says emphatically, only for his voice to shatter and spark off all high. He clears his throat, uncomfortably warm. “I’ve been struck with, ah… sudden clarity. You are a very good listener.”

Geralt looks unconvinced and Jaskier takes a step back, his scrutiny stroking too close to Jaskier’s arousal. He wants to jump in his bones right this second and soon enough the witcher might be able to smell it on him. If he even _can_ under the smell of his own spunk— _fuck._

“Actually, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Don’t wander off,” Geralt snaps, still suspicious. “We have less than a day’s ride. Write while you walk.”

Jaskier is simmering with arousal he won’t be able to explain away if Geralt decides to call him out, but his words actually give him the power to clamp down on it a little. “Does the town have an inn?” he asks hopefully.

“If that coin is burning your pocket, you can give it to me,” Geralt says instead of answering, adjusting Roach’s bridle.

The money _is_ suddenly burning a hole in his pocket. It’s not a massive city they’re headed for, but it’s on a big enough road that _surely_ they’ll have an inn for travelers. If he has to sing the whole building into feeling friendly enough to rent to a witcher, he’s sure he can do it. Maybe even get them a nice room with a private tub instead of having to use the town bathhouse.

“Ah, come on, I was just thinking you’d like to bathe and rest properly after your hunt!” Jaskier tosses out, trying not to put too much inflection on any of the words.

Geralt stills almost imperceptibly, though, a split second of hesitation that thrills Jaskier. “You’re just spoiled and don’t want to sleep outside,” he snaps a second later, a little gruffer than usual, but it’s not a no. With Geralt, that’s almost a ringing endorsement.

If Geralt is truly as depraved as Jaskier’s thinking, the next town will see him thoroughly rewarded for it.

*

The town is as friendly to witchers as can be hoped for, which just sends Jaskier’s already high spirits through the roof. Geralt has definitely noticed, keeps eyeing him suspiciously, but he hasn’t called him on it. The job should be easy enough for him to handle quickly, even if he still puts up his usual resistance to Jaskier actually joining him.

“You never tell the stories right after, Geralt, come on, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse!” Jaskier rambles, giddy as he follows behind Geralt, his attention pressing hard into the realm of irritation. “I just want to _see_ the beast for myself this time, I—”

Geralt stops suddenly, sending Jaskier crashing into his back. He’s rubbing his nose, just about to complain when Geralt whirls on him and Jaskier’s words die in his throat. He doesn’t feel any more hostility than usual, but the proximity has Jaskier’s skin tingling.

“I’ll bring you the head,” Geralt tells him with a mean showing of teeth that would almost count as a smile in better lighting.

“Alright, alright, message received!” Jaskier says, stumbling backwards with his hands raised, less out of fear and more out of modesty. He’s inordinately turned on and doesn’t want Geralt to know it just yet. “I’ll just,” he watches Geralt’s back as he turns to storm off, undeterred even as his attention—reluctantly, it appears—drags away from him, “hold down the fort here.”

Playing music seems like more of a risk than usual, actually. Jaskier is a good enough sort-of-siren that he doesn’t have to put much effort into keeping his own emotions from bleeding into his songs when he doesn’t want them to. Tonight, though, he’s keyed up enough that he’s honestly worried about starting an orgy that’d make Yennifer proud. He sticks to raucous songs, keeps the crowd energized and bright, loose with their coin.

By the time Geralt gets back, scuffed and carrying a bloody bag, but otherwise unharmed, Jaskier has the whole room buzzing. It’d be a hard sell to cool them down at this rate, to get out of the room without much protest, but honestly, he’d risk a bar fight to get to be alone with his witcher. There’s a thought.

Jaskier internally shakes his head and tosses up a cheer that makes Geralt glare at him as soon as he strums the opening chord to _Toss a Coin_. The tone in the room changes, though, because it always does when there’s a witcher and a dead thing. The innkeeper goes a little green, but does well to hide it as he pulls out a coin purse, frantically motioning for Geralt to put… _whatever_ that is on the floor and not the counter. The singing doesn’t die down, though, people shoving coins and ale into Geralt’s hands as he tries to make for the stairs. He’s more grimacing than smiling, but he takes what he’s offered with little more than a quiet nod before he carries on up the stairs. A dramatic exit as Jaskier finishes the song.

“You’ve been a _wonderful_ crowd, truly, second to none,” Jaskier gushes, trying not to vibrate out of his skin. “One more song before I attend to my witcher, yes? Yes, yes, here we go!”

By the time Jaskier has finished his encore, he’s got money instead of bread stuffed into his pockets as he doesn’t really manage to keep a sedate pace towards their room. Geralt is right, he’s getting spoiled on good luck, but he’ll ride this high until the wheels come off, he will. He’s loud enough that Geralt hears him coming and—ah, yes. The pressing roll of arousal is already there, sharpens when Jaskier throws open the door with a flourish.

Geralt is already in the tub, hair slack and wet around his shoulders, eyes narrowed into a glare at Jaskier’s ‘intrusion’ or whatever. He’s not fooling Jaskier, not anymore; he _has_ to be hard already.

Jaskier’s mouth is watering. “What a town!” he exclaims, slamming and barring the door behind him. “You never get to complain about my songs ever again, I saw how much coin they gave you. They’ll probably send up dinner, too, at this rate.”

“Hm,” is all Geralt gives him in response, but Jaskier thinks it sounds a little indulgent.

Sitting his lute down, he continues rambling even as he politely keeps the status quo, his back to Geralt as he carefully takes off his doublet and steps out of his shoes. The air is thick with the steam of a hot bath and Jaskier wonders how long he has until Geralt notices the smell of his arousal. There are so many ways this could go that Jaskier’s spinning out on everything he’s imagined this evening. Waiting his turn and getting off himself, knowing he won’t be able to hide it and Geralt would have to suffer silently or call him on it. Or asking directly why Geralt can’t seem to keep his eyes off him, _I’m beginning to think you like my ass more than the rest of me_.

Ultimately, Jaskier’s already fragile sense of self control snaps right in half when he bends at the waist to remove his trousers, feels himself chubbing up at Geralt’s roving eyes and the knife’s edge of attraction blazing across his skin. Abruptly, he doesn’t care to wait for any of those scenarios. He’s got a witcher to scandalize.

Geralt flashes bright with confused alarm when Jaskier steps out of his small clothes, too, drops them carelessly on the ground. “What are you doing?” he asks sharply.

“What’s it look like?” Jaskier asks him like he’s being silly, like Geralt is the one wildly off script. Still, he doesn’t do anything to stop Jaskier stepping into the opposite end of the tub, in as much as a tub this small can _have_ an opposite side. He sighs as he sinks into the nearly-too-hot water. On a whim, he shuts his eyes and leans his head back, the outside of his knee splaying out to press against the inside of Geralt’s. “It’s easier this way, isn’t it?”

Geralt’s attention is delicious, all tense and nearly frightened. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Marking me up,” Jaskier says and doesn’t have to open his eyes to revel in the shock Geralt feels at that. “Y’know, a decent man might’ve asked first,” he adds and waits for Geralt to dodge, to say something about decent men not hopping into occupied baths unwelcome. When only silence follows, he creaks an eye open. He’s met with a steady pink rising up Geralt’s face. Well, isn’t that a sight…

Geralt looks away. “I’m no man.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Witcher or not, you are still a person with at least half a brain.”

“I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

“Yes, you think I’m quite dim,” Jaskier replies, but without heat. It’s hard work to create and maintain that kind of persona. People falling for it is the best kind of appreciation. “Would that have somehow made it better? If I didn’t know I was bathing in your fluids?”

Geralt flashes red. “If you knew, why’d you stay?”

Jaskier feels a flicker of offense at first, which is somehow better than the pity he feels a second later. “You have to ask that after everything?” He mutters and when he’s met with confusion, he sighs, aligns himself plainly. “You’d have to do something so much more heinous to keep me away from you, dear heart.”

Geralt stares at him like he isn’t quite real, which is flattering. It really, truly is even when he says, “You’re a fool.”

“Jaskier the Jester, does have a nice ring to it, yeah?” Jaskier says with a smirk. Geralt doesn’t have a reply for that one, still looking a little stunned. “Well?” he says, rubbing his foot along Geralt’s thigh. “Are you going to mark your territory?”

The way Geralt’s eyes blow wild-dark at that makes Jaskier’s pulse pick up even as he stays lax in the water. He’s caught between the idea of Geralt picking him up to fuck him properly out of the tub or just standing up to jerk off on his chest. Or face, Jaskier isn’t particular.

“I already _am_ ,” Geralt says in a low growl right before he surges into Jaskier’s space.

Jaskier is too distracted by Geralt kissing him to form a question, even though he has a few. Like if Geralt can come on command, because he _certainly_ hasn’t been touching himself without Jaskier noticing, not this close. But then Geralt is pulling until Jaskier is between his legs, but doesn’t let him bring their hips together. Jaskier pulls his hair, whines, but Geralt just growls at him, sending goosebumps skittering down his spine even in the heat of the bathwater. Speaking of which, in spite of the kissing—the fantastic, rough, _frantic—_ kissing, Jaskier is vaguely aware of a new sensation in the mix. He can feel a rush of slightly cooler water against his cock, flowing up towards his stomach. He stiffens a little because it feels like—

Geralt pulls off to bite his neck. A proper bite, too, not a tender nip and Jaskier almost loses the thread of his thought, but _no_ , he’s not mistaken, the water around his arousal has gone lukewarm like—

Looking down between them, Jaskier sees a pale cloud of yellow in the water around their crotches.

Oh. Geralt has been _pissing_ in the bath, the absolutely _filthy bastard_.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier gasps, and it comes out choked. He means to be angrier, because for _fuck’s_ sake, that’s disgusting. Or at least it should be, but also Jaskier has been alarmingly close to pulling himself off about the idea of bathing in Geralt’s come. He doesn’t really feel like he can take the high ground about piss.

Especially not when Geralt replies to his shock, “I was holding it for you,” and Jaskier throbs at the thought, cock still painfully hard. Well, _there’s_ a previously unvisited fetish he hadn’t been aware he had.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Jaskier says emphatically, when Geralt sighs as he finishes, finally lets their arousals fall together. “Is that all you have for me?”

Geralt grips his ass, forcing him closer like he wants to meld them together. “I have more than you can take.”

Jaskier highly doubts it. “Prove it,” he challenges, only for it to turn into a startled shout when Geralt stands, lifting him like he weighs _nothing_.

It’s a good thing there are two beds in the room, because Geralt doesn’t pause to dry off before he throws Jaskier onto one, his attention fire hot all through Jaskier’s insides.

Jaskier spends the rest of the evening pinned on his back, vocally delighted about the whole experience.

Getting come in his chest hair is not his favorite feeling, but he’ll let it stand for now, especially when Geralt cleans up the worst of it with his tongue.

*

It rather quickly becomes a habit.

Jaskier is thinking about the pissing thing, not the sex, though that becomes a habit, too. Apparently, upon making the leap of letting Jaskier get close, Geralt is quite insatiable. Oh, he still draws his hard lines; doesn’t let Jaskier follow him into battle, is no more conversational or affectionate than usual. Still, Jaskier gets to know every single inch of him with his hands and mouth and is known in kind. All this attention is adding _years_ to his life.

The pissing probably is, too, actually, if only because Geralt now associates him with needing to piss, which… That had taken some getting used to, if only because now Jaskier is unfairly in tune with Geralt’s bathroom habits and finds the whole thing… weirdly hot?

Usually, by the time they manage to get to an inn, a lesser man would be in visible pain with how much piss Geralt has been holding. A witcher has much more restraint, though, and Jaskier can only tell because he can _feel_ how badly Geralt wants to pin him down, remind him and _everyone_ exactly whose he is. Jaskier gets in the bath and Geralt stumbles in after him, pissing down his own legs as soon as he’s standing over the water. The moans of relief he lets out then, the little tremors he lets Jaskier see as he shamelessly pisses into their bathwater are _frequent_ visitors of Jaskier’s dreams as of late. So is the sex that generally follows.

That is to say, Jaskier’s wet dreams have gotten much wetter. Much more hissing and splashing than before. Some of it is absurdist—he knows Geralt can’t _actually_ fill a tub for him—but other bits have started to creep close enough to the front of Jaskier’s waking mind that he knows he’s going to say it. His filter isn’t sturdy enough not to.

Lazily strumming a half-written song, daydreaming about the slack pleasure on Geralt’s face when he finally gets to let go, he says, “How long could you hold it, do you think?”

Geralt looks up at him from where he’s packing up his bedroll. He’s confused for a second before he gets a look at Jaskier’s face. Then his eyebrows raise slightly, a soft pink lighting his face and Jaskier thinks it may be his absolute favorite color. “All day, if I have to.”

Jaskier feels a low thrum of arousal in his groin at that. “And have you gone today?”

“You _know_ I haven’t,” Geralt snaps, not quite embarrassed, but something close.

“Right, right…” Jaskier nods, then casually orders, “Hold it for me.”

There’s a flicker of something across Geralt’s face that Jaskier can’t quite read, but his attention feels…different. Less like it’s going to bowl Jaskier over and more like it’s curling up, small and bright, in his chest. Huh. “We’re not staying at an inn tonight,” Geralt replies eventually. “The next town is—”

“Who said anything about the next town?” Jaskier cuts him off with a shrug, tauntingly walking off to relieve himself. “Hold it for me,” he says and Geralt does.

Geralt holds it the whole ride until after lunch when it seems like sitting astride Roach is too much to handle and he gets down to walk beside Jaskier. The fact that his attention is wavering doesn’t even make Jaskier pout like it normally would because he knows every time that Geralt’s focus goes fuzzy and indistinct, it’s because he’s turned in on himself and how badly he needs to pee.

“Jaskier,” he says when the sun has just barely started to tip towards the horizon. Nothing else, but it’s so close to begging Jaskier gets hard on the spot.

“How far ‘til we make camp?” Jaskier asks.

It takes a moment for Geralt to answer him, eyes high and scenting the air. “About two miles. _Jaskier_ —”

“Hold it for me,” Jaskier says again. “I promise you’ll like it more if you do.”

Geralt growls at that, but doesn’t tear off for the tree line. Obedience is an unusual look on him, a _good_ one; Jaskier is on the fast road to _spoiled_ on it.

Desperation is a good look, too, especially the way Geralt progressively fails to stifle it. The pinch around his eyes and the way he’s chewing his lip is more of a tell than Jaskier has _ever_ seen on him. His hands are clenched at his sides like he’s staving off the temptation to grab at himself. The image of him with his hand clutched between his legs makes Jaskier’s mouth water.

“You’re lovely like this,” Jaskier tells him dreamily.

“Shut _up_ ,” Geralt snaps, but it comes out flustered.

“No, you are,” Jaskier grins at him, stepping in front of him to walk backwards. “How bad is it?”

Geralt glares at him. “I’m not talking you off.”

“Why? Is it making you hard?” Jaskier pouts teasingly, stopping entirely even when Geralt nearly walks over him. “Would that help?”

“Letting me piss would help,” Geralt snaps, catching him by the wrists before Jaskier can go for his sides. “ _Don’t._ Unless you want me to piss right on _you_.”

That’s probably meant to be a threat, but Jaskier doesn’t feel like it’s nearly as much of a deterrent as Geralt meant for it to be. He’s also gotten worse at hiding his arousal from Geralt, so he doesn’t bother putting in the effort to try. It’s worth it for the way Geralt’s nose twitches, blinking in shock as he recognizes what he’s smelling.

“And if that was the reward?” Jaskier asks softly, “Would you be good for me?”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Geralt says, pushing him a step back without actually letting go of him, a twinge on his face. “Jaskier…”

“No watering down,” Jaskier continues, because the thought appeals to him almost as much as it does to Geralt. “You could just mark me right up, leave me smelling like I’m all yours.”

That earns him a true growl, Geralt yanking him forward and snarling right against his throat. “You _are_ mine.”

Jaskier shudders all the way down to his toes, swooning a little under the possessive rush of Geralt’s attention. “And you’re mine, dear heart,” he tells him. “Let me have you?”

“I—I don’t know if—” The unusually stumbling hesitance is absolutely _darling_.

“You can hold it,” Jaskier assures him, tugging his wrists until Geralt lets him free. “I just want to touch you a little. Please? I’ll be gentle.”

And he even means it. As much as his brain would like to see Geralt lose control completely, that’s a thought to be pursued on another day when they won’t have to hike in pissy clothes. So he keeps his touches light enough that Geralt shivers and hisses as Jaskier snakes a hand under his armor, feeling across the taut skin of his stomach, _gods_ , he’s full. Then Jaskier is nearly overwhelmed by the sight of Geralt’s knees nearly buckling, legs pressing together when Jaskier taps his cock, half hard and surely aching. “ _Enough._ ”

“You like it,” Jaskier accuses, but pulls his hands away. He watches Geralt slot himself back together, standing upright and as impassive as he can manage. It might be passable for anyone else, but Jaskier sees every crack in his composure and can hardly stand it. “Come on, come on.”

Under duress, Jaskier couldn’t tell you how Geralt locates any of the surely hundreds of tiny clearings they stay in along The Path. The only reason Jaskier recognizes where they are is because Geralt relaxes for a second only to tense like a slamming door the second after. He still manages to keep his hands off himself, but he presses his legs together tellingly. “ _Jaskier._ ”

It sounds like ‘ _please_ ’ and Jaskier is coming out of his clothes as fast as he can without tearing anything. “Are we safe here?” he asks belatedly and unnecessarily.

Geralt looks a little offended.

“Hush, I mean safe enough to have some fun, love.”

“There’s nothing but wildlife for miles, nothing that would bother us— _Jaskier_ , what are we doing?” Geralt cuts himself off, far too dignified to jiggle in place, but it’s obviously a near thing.

Jaskier steps out of his underthings, leaves them in a heap before nodding Geralt away from where Roach has started grazing, where they’ll likely sleep. “Just a little further, you’ve been so good, Geralt _._ ” He’s walking backwards again and misses a step, catches himself so his descent is a little more controlled. Kneeling there, he looks up at Geralt. “Right, then. Mark me up, show me whose I am,” he urges, heart pounding at Geralt’s low groan as he fumbles shakily at his fly. “But not my hair or I’ll just wash it back out,” he adds sharply.

“Fine,” Geralt grits through his teeth, taking a staggering step forward, cock dribbling uncontrollably onto Jaskier’s shoulder as he steps around to his back. They both breathe out shakily as he relieves himself, finally, forcefully onto Jaskier skin.

Jaskier imagines the yellow torrent running down his spine must make for a wonderful bit of contrast in the late afternoon sun, but nobody wants to hear a song about getting pissed on. Besides men like them, he supposes, casually stroking himself, but that’s a hard client base to find. He shuffles around, turning to catch the stream on his chest, unsurprisingly finding Geralt flushed and thick in his hand. He has to strain to finish, splattering Jaskier’s chest.

The smell is, of course, strong enough that Jaskier can’t miss it now. It’s not horrific, though, he can let Geralt have this for a while. Even once he does wash, he doubts he’ll be able to get the smell out enough for a witcher to miss… Huh.

Actually, Jaskier hasn’t gone since this afternoon. “What if I wanted to mark you back?”

Geralt throbs in his own hand so there’s the answer to that. He’s still breathless and shaky when he asks, “Could you do that hard?”

“Not the way you’re thinking,” Jaskier smiles, kisses the still damp tip of his erection. He doesn’t even mind the bitter tang on his lips when he pulls away. “Better get rid of it for me.”

Geralt flies out of his clothes with even less finesse than Jaskier had, pausing only long enough to grab a vial of…something slick. Jaskier isn’t too particular as long as it won’t do any permanent damage. Whatever it is lets Geralt’s fingers slide in warm and quick, working him open, the feeling sharper with the fullness of Jaskier’s bladder. He basks in the full, sloshy feeling until Geralt is three fingers deep and neither of them want to wait a second longer.

Jaskier rides him hard, his knees grinding into the damp dirt, because what difference does it make when he’s covered in piss already. Geralt stays seated upright so they’re chest to chest, arms tight around Jaskier even as he moves. He keeps his nose, keeps his _mouth_ pressed as close to Jaskier’s skin as he can get it, alternating between gasping for breath and scraping his teeth down his throat, across his collar bones. Geralt has never been a particularly chatty lover, but panting and occasional grunts of Jaskier’s name are familiar, welcome music of their love making.

The gasped “ _Mine_ ,” Geralt lets out when he comes is new, though, and _brilliant_.

Considering how that sets Jaskier off like fireworks, has him shouting in surprise as he comes, he isn’t entirely sure there wasn’t some magic involved in that, but. Well.

“ _Yours_ ,” he agrees when he manages to stop wailing, because he’s never been anyone’s and never wants to be anyone else’s. He kisses all over Geralt’s face, shuddering and rocking his dick against Geralt’s sweaty stomach. “Yours, yours—”

Geralt shushes him with their noses pressed together, still hugging him just this side of too tightly. Coming down leaves him unsteady, but Geralt holds him up until Jaskier’s breathing has come back under his control. He can’t quite relax yet, still uncomfortably aware of how badly he has to pee, but he imagines the feeling is about to be well worth it.

“Lay back,” Jaskier says, patting at Geralt’s chest then, on second thought, massaging his hand through his come on Geralt’s stomach. “Not done with you yet.”

“No?” Geralt replies distantly, eyes caught on the hypnotic motion of Jaskier’s hand.

They both shudder as Jaskier pulls off, but he doesn’t get up, just sits down on Geralt’s stomach. Geralt can take the weight, seems to enjoy it as he strokes up and down Jaskier’s thighs until Jaskier slaps at his hands. “Wait, wait, don’t make me hard again, stop,” he pants and Geralt does. His attention is distracting even when Jaskier shuts his eyes, but eventually he’s calmed down enough to make a truly heroic attempt at ignoring it. He thinks better of touching his dick, lets it rest against Geralt’s torso and relaxes.

Geralt sounds like he’s been punched right in the stomach when Jaskier finally manages to let go, sending piss running in a hot stream up Geralt’s chest, right to the hollow of his throat and over his shoulders. “ _Jaskier!_ ”

Jaskier sighs dreamily towards the sky, thoroughly fucked and finally pissing leaving him feeling syrupy and sated. “ _Gods_ , that’s good,” he groans looking back down to see the torrent soaking Geralt’s chest hair. The stream sputters to a slow at the wrecked look on Geralt’s face, mouth open and panting like he’s just fought a whole field of monsters. “ _Oh_ , Geralt, fuck, you were so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you?” He strains, accidently spraying piss under Geralt’s chin, but he doesn’t apologize. Not when Geralt just moans louder, lets his head fall back and brings his hand up into the stream, dazedly rubbing into his skin.

“Fuck, Jaskier, _yes_ ,” Geralt says and Jaskier is truly thrumming inside with at the easy admission. “ _Yours._ ”

Oh, if this isn’t magic, Jaskier doesn’t know what is. He’s never felt more powerful in his life. Even when he sighs as he dribbles to a stop and Geralt topples him over. Jaskier lands in a breathless, laughing heap. Geralt scents his hair, the crook of his neck, down, down, down until his mouth opens against him and Jaskier grips a fist full of grass and a fist full of Geralt’s hair and _sobs_ with how good his witcher is to him.

The sun is setting by the time Geralt has worked himself out of his frenzy, still blessedly naked with Jaskier laying half on top of him. It’s still hot out, muggy even, but the distant noises of the forest and Roach’s distant shuffling feel like a comfortable blanket. They’re sticky all over and Jaskier is sore in the best of ways as Geralt holds his leg where it’s tossed over him, stroking the side of his thigh.

“You’ve cursed yourself with my presence, you know?” Jaskier warns him in a lazy mumble right against his neck. “I’m far too spoiled on you. You’ll never get me to leave you alone, now.”

Geralt goes still, nearly holding his breath. The fact that Jaskier can feel the dull roar of desire still thrumming between them spike again is the only thing keeping him from being afraid he’d ruined it.

As it stands, Geralt brings a hand up to the back of his head and roughly admits, “I don’t think I’d let you.”

The words knit together warm and tight in Jaskier’s chest, leaving him unsure if he wants to laugh or scream. What a dangerous idea they’re playing at here, but all the same, good _gods_ , what a fucking relief. Geralt hums, kissing the damp corner of his eye and, caught, Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

“Come on,” Geralt says, only a touch regretfully. He sits up, taking Jaskier vertical with him in spite of his grumbling. “We should bathe before we get into the bedrolls.”

“ _Rinse_ ,” Jaskier corrects suddenly, feeling the same itchy need to have Geralt marked as absolutely, indisputably _taken_ that Geralt must feel. He curls his fingers around Geralt’s wrist when he looks down at him. “Don’t scrub.”

It’s almost enough to spark off another round just like that, but it’s getting dark and they _should_ probably get off the worst of the grime. “Sure,” Geralt agrees, pulling Jaskier to his feet.

Jaskier stretches, humming tunelessly and following behind a witcher that smells like he belongs to a siren. Hm.

Surely, someone would listen to a song about that, right?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…there’s someone out there who’d love to be yours 
> 
> Summary: Geralt had been scent marking Jaskier without his consent (by pissing/coming in their bathwater). Jaskier figures it out allows it to continue before eventually encouraging it and actively participating. This is not a Stockholm Syndrome thing, it’s a Jaskier being equally kinky and possessive thing.


End file.
